


Nothing Personal

by meaninglessblah



Series: The Janus Diaries [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood As Lube, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Branding, Burns, Caning, Cock & Ball Torture, Cock Warming, Collars, Come as Lube, Drugged Sex, Forced, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Object Insertion, Object Penetration, Sadism, Smoking, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29791518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Slade blows off a contract with Roman for a night with Dick, and discovers the consequences.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Roman Sionis, Dick Grayson/Roman Sionis/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Roman Sionis/Slade Wilson
Series: The Janus Diaries [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2175030
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17
Collections: Romin Week 2021





	Nothing Personal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withthekeyisking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/gifts).



> For [Roman/Robin Week 2021](https://romanrobinweek.tumblr.com/) Day 1: ~~BOP Villains Win AU~~ | Branding | ~~Ignored Safeword~~
> 
> An enormous thank you to the event mods for creating, organising and running a fantastic event ❤

Slade’s brain’s been scrambled. It feels loose in his skull, keeling when he drags his cheek across what feels like crumpled sheets. Everything is enhanced, his senses reeling as it all slowly comes back together. 

Slade doesn’t remember what the _fuck_ he did last night, but apparently it was one hell of a party. The last thing he _can_ summon from the quagmire of his memory is Dick, the warm feel of his skin beneath Slade’s palms as they’d rolled around in the man’s blue sheets. 

Somehow, he doesn’t think he’s still in Dick’s bed. 

“He’s coming to.” The voice is distant, but close enough to slither its way into Slade’s upturned ear canal. He groans, baring teeth as he tries to orientate himself. “Whenever suits you, Wilson.” 

His limbs feel sluggish, muscles protesting any sort of fine motor control as Slade shifts. The room spins, his brain throbbing in his skull. He can’t move his arms, his movements hindered by what Slade is sure are restraints, but can’t focus enough right now to identify. He’s a little preoccupied with whatever is latched tight around his windpipe. 

Everything is gradually reasserting itself with overwhelming clarity. He’s sprawled on his stomach, hip turned into what feels like a mattress. His arms feel like they’re straightjacketed to his bare chest, wrapped tight over his midsection as Slade shifts and the pressure on his throat increases. 

Now that he can concentrate somewhat, he’s beginning to identify a pattern, a soft tug and lapse, like a tide almost. Brushing against the front of his neck. It’s distracting enough to give Slade pause, to have him furrow his brow and heave as breath as he tries to centre himself. 

“Rise and shine,” the voice sings cheerily, grating in its malignancy. Slade knows that voice; he’s had enough business dealings with Roman Sionis, the Black Mask, to recognise the man’s unnerving timbre. 

Never a good sign, waking up in the same room as Roman Sionis. But a quick personal sweep reveals no immediate injuries, and no threats other than the odd choice of restraints. And whatever is agitating his throat. All in all, surprisingly hospitable. 

Slade shifts again, rolling onto his front to try and bring a knee up under himself. Getting himself mobile is key, even though his balance doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. He gives up after a moment, breathing heavy into the sheets as his brain unscrambles. 

He tries to dedicate the time to measuring his surroundings. There’s another person in the room; close, Slade thinks, if the broken pants spilling from their lips are anything to go by. It’s a familiar sound, oddly enough. 

He’s had his little bird panting - beneath him, against him, around him - enough times to recognise Dick’s pattern of laboured breathing by now. It’s as familiar as the shine of his eyes or the gleam of his smile. Slade relaxes at the man’s presence, trying to focus enough to seek him out. 

His good eye is turned into the sheets, and opening it only assaults him with a wash of sensation that feels like needles stabbing into Slade’s skull. He groans and lists on the mattress, shaking off the dregs of some mighty strong drugs. 

Dick’s breathing is sharp and short, emanating from somewhere beside him. Closer than Slade would expect, and hitched with what sounds like a sob. It makes his brow furrow, makes him struggle up to his knees with all the more determination. 

“Really, Wilson? This is what you blew off our contract for - a booty call?” A bark of laughter that grates in Slade’s sensitive ears, and then a contemplative note, punctuated by a withering cry. “I will admit, it’s a great piece of ass.” 

That makes Slade stir a little more vigorously, senses falling into place to alert him to how _close_ Roman is, right behind Dick, almost as if he were- 

The next tremulous sob falls on Slade’s ears like a sledgehammer, jolting him into a semblance of wakefulness as he jerks upright. Comes to a jarring halt when something catches at the base of his throat and Dick gives him a choked bleat of protest. 

There’s a chain, running from the base of Slade’s neck to the wrought iron bedhead. 

Tracing it with his recovering eye tells Slade it ends at the base of Dick’s throat, the pair of them interconnected by a few feet of length, woven through the metalwork. It draws taunt when Roman jerks Dick back by the grip on his hips to thrust into him. 

If asked, he’d chalk up his stupefaction to the drugs; but it still takes Slade longer than it should for him to process the fact that Roman is currently fucking into his little bird with blatant abandon. The slap of skin on skin is violent. Every line of Roman’s body is drawn in aggression, in sick enjoyment of the way Dick is crying quietly into the sheets. 

They’ve been going at this for a while, and Slade’s stomach turns at the thought of how long he’s been out. Long enough for Dick’s pleas to subside to dull little whimpers, face twisting with pain every time Roman slides back into his body, mouth opening around a pained little cry whenever he accidentally strikes Dick’s prostate. 

Fear floods him, spiked with enduring hatred at the sight of the man. The thought that he’s hurt Dick, with Slade lying there useless at his side, for who knows how long- 

Slade’s arms catch in their restraints, jerking against the base of his sternum when Roman laughs. Grinds deeper into his little bird as Dick whines, “Slade.” 

The growl that rings its way up out of Slade’s throat makes the collar shake, makes Dick’s brow pinch as he twists to glare up at Roman. 

The infamous Black Mask tosses him a grin, almost lackadaisical as he buries himself deep in Dick’s ass and comes. The little bird groans at the treatment, but weathers it nonetheless, tears sparkling along already-wet lashes as Roman pulls free. 

Something tells Slade this isn’t the first time. His gut churns with vitriol. 

“Roman,” he snarls, surprised to find his voice hoarse. The drugs are still wreaking havoc in his system, making Slade overcorrect when he lists sideways. The room spins away from him, taking his bird with it, and Slade groans. 

Dick keens, the sound sharp and wounded, as Slade struggles to find his bearings. “Slade, don’t-” 

And then a shout, punctured by something Roman’s inciting. It wavers into a choked off sob, but not before Roman orders, “Quiet, Wing. This doesn’t concern you.” 

Footsteps, as Roman pulls away from Dick. And a relieved, broken sigh that Slade wishes he hadn’t heard. 

“Up we get.” 

Nails scrape down his spine, no doubt drawing bright red lines of colour as Roman’s hand fists around the strap at his waist. 

He’s manhandled to his feet, staggering when his soles touch cold tile, chain jangling against the bedhead. 

“Roman,” he spits, and swears when the room lurches again. The crime lord’s vicious grip keeps him upright, guiding him ruthlessly around the end of the bed. 

It chews through the slack of the chain, forcing Slade to bend forward with a grunt of protest. His hip hits the end post, metal biting viciously enough to bruise on impact. Roman pays him no mind, steering him over before releasing him to slump forward. Which is when he realises he’s at the end of the bed, poised over Dick’s shuddering form. 

Fingers touch his neck, and Slade yanks away instinctively, chest clenching at Dick’s reflexive choke. 

“Little bird,” he whispers, and bares teeth when the chain slides against his throat, cold and unwelcome. 

“Work with me here, Wilson,” Roman encourages, reeling it in. Slade’s stronger, even while drugged, and he can withstand Roman crushing his windpipe, if that’s how far he pushes; moreover, he’s prepared to let him do it, just for the satisfaction of refusing the bastard. 

But Dick can’t. And as soon as Slade digs his heels in and refuses to budge, it’s Dick who’s choking, heels knocking Slade’s shins as his toes slip on the tile, searching for something to propel him up the mattress. To loosen the bruising pressure on his lungs. 

Slade bows. 

He can _feel_ the weight of Roman’s grin as he locks in the new link, ensuring Slade is all but flush with Dick’s behind where the vigilante is bent over the bed end. 

It makes his skin scrawl when Roman steps around behind him, the hairs rising on his neck at that dangerous proximity. Slade’s arms turn in their restraints, seeking purchase, an escape, anything. Beneath him, Dick shivers and swallows a few times. 

“Slade,” he murmurs, soft enough that maybe Roman won’t hear more than the rasp of his overused throat. Again, Slade wonders how long he’s been out, how long Dick’s been vulnerable to this sadist’s proclivities. His vision bleeds red. “Are you okay?” 

The concern in that tone saps some of the fury from Slade’s veins, replacing it with helpless guilt. This close, he can see bruises on Dick’s sides, hitched between his ribs and over the arches of his hips. 

Slade bends forward to press a kiss to the centre of Dick’s spine, chest clenching at the soft sigh the man gives him. “Are _you_ okay?” 

“‘M fine,” Dick whispers back, but the words sound strangled through a thick throat. Streaked with brimming tears. “I’m-” 

“Little bird,” Slade says, but it lacks his usually chastising levity. “Don’t pretend for me.” 

Dick sniffles, the only chip in his otherwise resilient facade. His face turns into the sheet, the links clinking between the bars of the headboard as he mumbles, “I’m scared.” 

It’s only partially a lie when Slade says, “I’m getting us out of here, little bird.” 

Dick nods, something hopeful kissing his brow, smoothing that grimace. It’s stolen when Roman’s hand worms between them, unwelcome as Slade rears back on instinct and remembers the restrictive collar a beat too late. 

He stills, with effort, lips peeling back to bare teeth as Roman pets his hip mockingly. “You don’t mind if I interject, do you, Wilson?” 

“Fuck off,” Slade bites back, to Roman’s grating amusement. 

His fingers circle the base of Slade’s cock, squeezing sharply enough that it draws a pained grunt from his chest, before they glide down to the tip. The shock and revulsion isn’t enough to detract from what he’s obviously trying to achieve, and Slade resolves not to give the man what he’s after. 

Roman gives him a tiresome little scoff, toying with his cock as Slade grits teeth and tries to bear it. “Don’t play the prude. You were balls deep in your little bird when I had you brought in. Don’t tell me you’ve gotten shy on me, now.” 

It’s hard to stay flaccid, to stay uninvolved, when Roman is steadily jacking his cock between grinding it down the crease of Dick’s ass. Call him a creature of habit, but there’s not a lot Slade won’t do for that ass. 

Roman chuckles when he responds to the treatment, cementing Slade’s loathing as he coaxes him to full hardness, one hand resting condolingly on the mercenary’s hip. 

“There we go,” he croons, the sound ratcheting Slade’s blood pressure up a few cruel degrees. 

Dick flinches when Roman’s fist bumps against his cheek, but doesn’t try to shift away. As if he knows this is inevitable. Slade’s teeth clench so hard he’s sure at least one cracks. 

“Lighten up a little, Wilson,” Roman teases. “Enjoy yourself. _You’re_ the one who wanted to blow off our contract for _this ass._ ” 

He cracks a palm down over the bare flesh, laughing at Dick’s percussive yelp. 

Then he’s guiding the crown of Slade’s cock into that waiting hole, a bare-toothed hiss on Slade’s lips as he breaches the prone vigilante. Dick gives him a soft moan for it, but otherwise surrenders to his fate, trapped by the ironwork and Slade’s muscular thighs. The hand on his back may be steering, but Slade still stutters forward with a gasp when that tight heat grips him. 

It’s only then that he becomes cognizant of the slick presence of Roman’s cum easing the slide. It’s enough to make Slade’s vision bleed red, a growl building in his throat as he’s pushed flush to his little bird’s hips. 

Once he’s in, Roman’s hands withdraw, the man stepping away, and Slade exhales at the reprieve. It’s not much, when Dick is clenching softly around him, hips shifting to gain comfort. Still, Slade takes the opportunity to lean forward and press a gentle kiss to the man’s shoulder blade. 

“Are you alright, little bird?” 

Dick stiffens for a moment, nodding into the sheets as he turns his head to meet Slade’s gaze from the corner of his eye. He gives a weak, reassuring smile that makes Slade’s heart clench in his chest. 

“Who knew you could be such a sweetheart,” Roman comments when Slade kisses the other shoulder. 

“Fuck off,” Slade spits, injecting as much venom into the words as he can. 

He’s rewarded with a stinging slice of pain across the tender flesh of his inner thigh. 

Slade jerks forward on instinct, as if he can leap away from the fire chewing into the muscle, and stills remorsefully when Dick groans at the friction. He withdraws as much as the collar will allow him, an apology on his lips when his other thigh lights up. 

He’s joined by Dick in his yelp of pain, twisting around to identify what sick trick Roman is employing now. The sight of the thin bone-white cane in his palm has Slade’s gut sinking. 

“Isn’t that just a pretty little voice?” 

Dick yelps and flinches away from the sharp sting of pain, limbs moving uselessly where they’re pinned between Slade and the bed. His leg cants, his heel slamming into Slade’s shin as he scrambles for a reprieve. Finds himself crushed by the weight of Slade on his hips, and lets loose a wavering sob at his predicament. 

“Listen to the little bird sing,” Roman enthuses, and aims a series of flicks that climb up Dick’s bruising flesh in burning stripes. Slade bares his teeth through the agony, more concerned with the way the man trembles beneath him, back arching against the entrapment. 

It’s almost instinctual, the way he shifts to block the brunt of the blows, absorbing the sting that Roman peppers down their thighs. It doesn’t stop Dick from flinching beneath him, every twitch translating through Slade’s cock, forcing him deeper into the smaller man. 

“Eager, aren’t you?” Roman comments, skimming the tip over the underside of their balls. 

“Roman,” Dick chokes, a plea to that tone that dies when Roman snaps the switch across that sensitive skin. Dick lurches upward, the bed rocking when he screams and then shivers into the sheets. 

“Don’t you think, Wilson?” Roman continues, as if Dick had never interrupted. “Look at how he’s fucking back on your cock. Can’t pay for that level of enthusiasm.” 

It twists something hot and mean inside Slade, hearing Roman talk about his bird like that. Like Dick’s nothing more than an object, a hole to take pleasure from. He knows that’s the crime lord’s intention, to rile him up, but knowing doesn’t soothe the ache any. Especially not when Dick buries his face in the sheets, shoulders hunching against the shame. 

“I wouldn’t know,” Slade bites back, tone cold. “Never had to pay someone to tolerate my cock. Or my personality, for that matter.” 

Roman’s grin is malicious, thrilled that Slade’s finally buying into his game, perhaps. “I’m sure you’re quite the white knight when it comes to fucking little birds that stray too far from the Bat.” 

Slade grits his teeth, a retort building that dies as the subdued whimper that slips from Dick’s throat. All at once, his attention is on his bird again, even as Roman steps away, taking that damned cane with him. He’s consumed with the points of warmth where his skin meets Dick’s, where the vigilante is wrapped tight around him, clinging to the reassurance that Slade will save them. 

The man’s trust is galvanising. Is more than Slade thinks he deserves, considering the circumstances. 

A movement to his right draws Slade’s heated attention. Something metallic clatters as Roman shifts, retrieving something that’s sure to promise pain. His stomach draws tight at the threat in the crime lord’s grin when he finds what he’s been rummaging for. 

Slade watches the metal studs glint in the light as Roman waves the strips of leather before his face. There’s a buckle at one end, a D-link at the other, from which dangles a smaller wrist-sized cuff. 

Roman smirks. “Hold still, won’t you?” 

He doesn’t need the warning, featherlight touch Roman trails down Dick’s spine to remind Slade what’s at stake here. His swelling rage does give him something to focus on when Roman lays the harness over his thigh, threading leather through buckle and yanking it tight. 

Tight enough that it rocks Slade forward with the pull, a hiss leaving him at the sharp bite of the metal studs into the meat and muscle. The leather is stiff and unrelenting where it touches him, a coarse reminder of their predicament. 

He’s sated by the reminder that Roman has to remove his restraints to get his wrists in those cuffs. And if Roman expects Slade to go quietly to his demise, he’s got another thing coming. Despite all his faults, Slade’s patience can be as enduring as it needs to be. The right moment only needs to present itself once. 

So he waits for Roman to trail around to his other side, skin crawling as he locks the other straps tight around Slade’s other thigh. 

Then Roman reaches forward to clasp Dick’s ankle, tugging it ruthlessly up. The hero pitches forward into the sheets with a cry of surprise that’s echoed in Slade’s chest, toes curling as Roman leverages the trembling limb up, folding it until he can latch the smaller cuff around the bones of Dick’s ankle. 

“Roman,” Dick pleads, panic rising when the man relinquishes his calf and his ankle catches in the cuff. Slade grunts at the bite of metal on the sensitive inside of his thighs, and Dick stills immediately, though his head still turns to track Roman as he circles around to Dick’s other leg. “Please, Roman, don’t, _please._ ” 

It makes Slade’s gut twist, knowing how ineffectual the man’s pleas are on the ears of the crime lord. Dick seems to realise it too, because he heaves a soft, bitten-down sob when Roman relentlessly cuffs his other limb to Slade’s thigh. It spreads Dick around his cock, the man tightening reflexively as a trail of the crime lord’s cum eases out of his stuffed rim. The flex of Dick’s thighs as he tests his new position only serves to make him clench around Slade’s girth, until he slumps boneless into the sheets. 

Roman, expectedly, takes notes. “Aw, come on, Wing! Where’d all that vigor go? You seemed perfectly lively when you were dancing on the tip of _my_ cock.” 

Slade watches those long, clumped lashes close over Dick’s wet blue eyes, teeth biting into that lower lip to fend off Roman’s words. It doesn’t stop the way he feels Dick draw tight around his length, shoulders hunching at the humiliation. 

He can weather the pain, weather Dick’s panicked shifting, for the sake of his little bird. Slade’s prepared to do that, even when Dick’s struggles are renewed at the sight of the thin white cane Roman produces. Every twitch sinks metal teeth into Slade’s thighs, spurred by Dick’s useless kicking as he vents his fear at the crime lord’s approach. 

“Now you’re dancing,” Roman comments appreciatively, and Slade tries to twist his head to keep the man in view when he stops behind them. “Let’s see if we can get you really shouting on Wilson’s cock, hmm?” 

Slade growls, the sound slipping away when he hears the telltale whistle that cuts through the air directly behind his elbow. Ice pools down Slade’s spine, horror twisting his lungs into a tight vice. 

The scream that rips from Dick’s throat is delayed by a second that feels like an hour to Slade’s senses. There’s just the vibrating swing of the cane, so close to his own skin, and then Dick is lurching up the bed, lips parted around a raw shriek. 

Trapped between Slade’s thighs and the unrelenting iron bed-end, there’s nowhere for him to go. Dick squirms and writhes on the sheets, sobbing hysterically with every line of agonising heat Roman draws across the soles of his feet. And every aborted jerk shifts the harnesses strapped to Slade’s thighs, drags those jagged metal teeth across his nerves until he’s gritting his teeth from the pain. 

It won’t do any good trying to convince Dick to lie still. Even with his plethora of training, the concentrated sting of the bone cane Roman is lavishing on his unprotected nerves would be enough to make Slade flinch. There’s nothing Slade can do but swallow down his own grunts of pain as Dick jerks beneath him, pinned and trapped as he weeps openly into the rumpled sheets. 

The agony is only made worse by the way Dick rocks back onto his cock with every shift of his hips, momentum carrying him backwards into the cradle of Slade’s hips until he slumps and resolves to weather the worst of the pain. He still twitches with every blow, screams rising until they’re a steady wail, hole clenching on Slade’s cock with every aborted shift. 

By the time Roman grows bored, Dick’s feet are beginning to bleed, thin stripes of red carving into the acrobat’s soles. The sight makes his gut clench, makes Slade wonder how long it will be before the man recovers his balance enough to use his feet again. 

Through it all, Roman maintains his smug, self-satisfied air. Slade watches him clean the bone cane off on the sheets next to Dick’s face; doesn’t miss the flinch Dick gives when it slides through the crumpled sheets. 

Roman makes sure to trail it across Dick’s exposed back when he withdraws, and Slade’s fury piques at the way Dick’s entire body revolts against the featherlight touch. 

“Now that we’ve sorted that,” Roman says with grandiose charm, setting the cane aside as he returns to his macabre collection. Slade tries to steel himself for whatever comes next, determined to weather his punishment better than Dick did. If only to spare the limp little bird any more suffering. 

His resolve wavers at the sight of the bullwhip Roman retrieves, cold piercing through his gut. 

It’s been… a while, since Slade was on the receiving end of a whip like that. Not since his pre-serum days, catching stray swings from unsupervised children sent to play in the fields, using tools as toys. He still remembers the welts, thick and bruising from stupid games, aching as he'd trudged home along gravel roads. 

The braid is thick, maybe half Slade’s finger’s width at the tip. Without hesitation, if that touches Dick’s skin, it will flay him open. 

Slade… will heal. He tries to galvanise his resolve with the reminder that the pain, like most things for him, is only temporary. 

Not unfelt though, and when Roman glides the tip of the thing over the valley of Slade’s spine - letting him feel the weight and malice of it - he can’t quite curb the shudder that rips through his muscles. 

Roman’s smile is audible, teeth cutting when he says, “Two for flinching.” 

Slade feels the hits before the pain takes. The weight behind the blows is surprising, the swings direct and unflinching. The agony follows swiftly after, blinding in its force. 

Great strips of fire that cleave his back in two as he bellows and curls forward. 

Dick mewls beneath him, more out of concern than from any sort of pain. At least, Slade hopes. It’s hard to focus when Roman is tearing strips off his spine with every fall of the whip. 

He can feel the wetness growing, seeping from the mess of agony that is his back. It trails over his skin, trickling down the divot of his spine to pool above the crack of Slade’s ass. 

When Roman ceases, the heat flares, pain washing over him in waves as he shakes above his little bird. Unwilling to let him come to any further harm at the hands of that sadist. 

“Slade?” Dick says, turning his head as far as the collar will allow him. 

He wants to reply, wants to reassure the man. Slade’s just not sure anything that comes out of his mouth will be comprehensible right now. Between the shock his body is currently absorbing and the lingering effects of the drugs, it’s a wonder he hasn’t keeled over yet. 

It’s only the brush of Dick’s legs against his, the soft squeeze of thighs that Slade’s sure he means as a comfort, that keeps him centred through every ragged breath. Returning the favour that Slade tried to offer him. It soothes, barely. 

The intimate touch is interrupted by Roman’s wet fingers sliding between the cleft of his ass. Slade reels, jerking forward reflexively, further into Dick. The man gives him a surprised grunt, twisting to try and spot what’s spooked the mercenary as he feels Roman press further into him. 

It’s unbearably cold, intrusive, stabbing into Slade as his muscles tremble and he wars with the twin urges to resist and acquiesce. He’s in no shape to be putting up a front right now, not with his back still weeping blood and his muscles struggling to sew themselves back together. 

“Slade,” Dick repeats, the word little more than a breath as he slumps over his little bird. It opens him up to Roman’s torment as a second finger breaches him, far too soon to be anything but excruciating; but it lets him shield Dick, and Slade needs the confirmation that his bird is alive and safe more than anything else right now. “Slade, talk to me.” 

He buries his forehead between the man’s shoulder blades, metering his breathing. “Just need… a minute.” 

He can sense Dick’s panic, the flare of concern that ripples down his spine. Does his best to soothe that flare with a muddled kiss. Every shift spears Dick further on his cock, has them both shifting uncomfortably as Roman fucks his fingers mechanically in and out of Slade’s hole. 

“Come on, Wilson, lighten up,” Roman scoffs, and stabs hard against his prostate, the force bruising. Slade’s thighs tremble, his resolve cracking as he tries to stay still for Dick’s comfort. “You of all people should know what it feels like to be _fucked_ by your business partner.” 

Slade grits his teeth, toes curling as Roman opens him up on his fingers, cruel and clinical. The assault makes Slade’s muscles twitch and tremble, sweat clinging to his skin in streaks as he fights not to aggravate his slowly healing wounds. Fights to stay upright enough not to crush Dick, even though it feels like someone’s stripping the flesh from his thighs. 

Evidently satisfied by his progress, Roman withdraws abruptly, his fingers replaced with the unyielding thickness of the bullwhip’s handle. Slade can barely summon the energy to protest the mistreatment as he’s split open on the length. 

The leather, at least, is impersonal. Easily ignored once it’s settled deep inside his ass, plugging his hole where it’s stretched wide around the stiff handle. 

It’s distinctly uncomfortable, but only humiliating if Slade allows it to be so. And with his back still flayed open, it’s hard to care how ridiculous he looks with a braided tail dangling between his thighs. 

Roman seems satisfied, regardless, stepping away from the fatigued mercenary to circle the bed again. Ratcheting Slade’s blood pressure ever higher with every step he makes closer to Dick. Until he’s standing to the front of him, that sick smirk levelled on Slade across the expanse of their prone bird. 

Slade feels the floor slip out from under his stomach, shearing through the blinding pain for a brief moment when Roman reaches for Dick. 

Those blue eyes shimmer beneath the thin film of his tears, his hopeless plea smeared down his cheeks when Roman leverages his head up. Pretty lips wrap around the words, a sob marring them into something indistinct when Roman shoves his slacks off his hips. 

“No, no, no, _please,_ ” Dick whimpers, and Roman lifts a thumb to press a single sparkling teardrop into the teeth marks in his lower lip. 

“Roman,” Slade growls, but it has none of his bite, wavering out on dejected notes. 

That thumb entreats deeper, shoving a sob back into the man’s throat when Roman tugs his jaw open. “Come on, little birdy,” he sneers, taking a firm grip of his cock with his other hand. “Work with me here.” 

Dick tries to buck, tries to jerk his head out from under that grip. But Slade can see the fatigue in his overworked muscles, the weariness in his willpower as his mouth is forced open. He can’t summon an ounce of resentment when Dick’s lips part around the intruding length; can’t say he wouldn’t do the same if he found himself in the vigilante’s shoes. 

Roman groans into the sensation, hand lifting to take a firm, guiding handful of dark hair as he rocks deeper. Easing Dick’s throat open around his length as the little bird struggles to take it all. His pace is unhurried, indulgent and indolent as he admires the stretch of Dick’s lips and the shine of spit on his stiffening cock. 

Dick doesn’t offer any further resistance. He lets Roman use his mouth as he pleases, numb to the mess of tears and spit that smear across his cheeks with every slide of Roman’s cock. His eyelids are heavy, his usually bright blues clouded with resignation as Slade watches the crime lord use him. 

It takes longer than Slade can bear before Roman’s pace shifts to something a bit more directed, until he angles Dick down to fuck his throat with abandon, unfazed by the pained chokes it earns him. Drool spills over Dick’s flushed lips, staining his chin and the sheets below them as Roman thrusts deep, rocking Dick back onto Slade’s cock with the force. 

It’s too long, anyway, before he’s coming down the little bird’s throat, holding him tight to the base of his cock as he empties into his warmth. Dick takes it as best he can manage, spluttering and whimpering even when Roman pulls himself free. 

As soon as he’s released, Dick slumps to the sheets, limp and wasted beneath Slade. For all the horror his lifetime has delivered, Slade’s never felt more helpless. 

It’s cheapened by the soft snap of Roman’s lighter opening, the click of the flywheel and a spark of flame drawing Slade’s eye. Roman waves it against the tip of his cigarette, grinning around the filter when he meets Slade’s eye. 

“Want one?” he asks, and Slade’s lip curls. The crime lord chuckles, pocketing the lighter as he tucks himself away. 

The lungful of acrid smoke he exhales makes Slade’s nose scrunch, an assault on his enhanced senses as he pants against his little bird. Unsure whether to kiss his reassurances into the man’s bared skin, or grant him the solitary reprieve he deserves. 

Neither option sates Slade’s need to draw Dick into his arms, to shield the smaller man with his bulk and smooth away those tears. And, if he’s being truly honest with himself, right now Slade’s consciousness is swamped with the need to remove Roman entirely. Permanently. 

The sight of that sick grin on his lips stokes the blazing inferno of Slade’s loathing, twisting the heat up into something Slade can feel on every inhale, searing through his lungs and his veins. Spurring him to action, to his little bird’s defense in the presence of this psychopath. 

As if able to read Slade’s beleaguered mind, Roman hums with satisfaction. Takes another pull of his cigarette. 

“Nothing compares to a good post-fuck smoke,” he declares, and then snuffs the amber tip on Dick’s shoulder blade. 

The vigilante screams, voice breaking when Roman grinds the ash into his flesh. Over his wail, Roman meets Slade’s horrified stare and declares, “We’ll renegotiate our contract in the morning. I’ll give you the night to mull it over.” 

Then he’s tossing the spent butt aside, Dick’s howl softening to a subdued sob as Roman steps away from the bed. Leaving Slade slumped over his broken little bird. 

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


End file.
